La La Lars Ulrich Land CHAPTER ONE
by YouJustGotShrimped
Summary: If you read this you'll GET SHRIMPED! A word of warning.


**La Lars Ulrich Land – A Journey of Ryan Gosling**

Greetings, milksops and migbaps.

This is a tale of woe and fish men, except there isn't much woe and to be perfectly honest with you, this is not a world wherein fish men are especially ubiquitous, they're more of a carrot on a stick type deal to lure you in.

SO, if a tale of woe isn't up your alley, then keep reading for the fish men.

Although, I must reiterate that fish men probably won't appear in this chapter for the benefits of pacing and creating enigmas.

When will the fish men appear? You may ask.

We don't know either. For these are the mysteries.

Also, I should probably establish that this is being written by someone who has seen La La Land and was very much enchanted by its ostentatious and opulent splendour. However, much of the creative input stems from someone who refuses to watch La La Land on the grounds of "it being for pussies."

 _Milton Blumquist_ and _Monster-Mash Graveyard-Smash_

 **Chapter One**

We take you now to the magical city of Lost Angle-Knees, renowned for its incredibly vibrant and influential Shrimp-jazz music scene, and probably some other jazzy tap dance endeavours. It would make sense that such an effervescent environment would galvanise the growth of some equally effervescent characters. Ryan Gosling is one such jivin' duke; he's the cock of the walk; the man about town; the guy known for being a guy you'd want to know. When he's not dancing a jig down the Boulevard of Bulbous Salutations (this is both a metaphorical and absolutely literal location) he's fingering a serious C# arpeggio on his sentient foldable piano-pal; Beef Oven.

So, there he is, our plucky protagonist, down enjoying an ice-cold Um-Bongo in _Cathy's Cleft House_ , everyone's favourite quaint tea-teashop and inter-dimensional brothel. He was in a bit of a sour mood at the world, his good temperament tarnished by memories of the Great War, when all of a sudden, he was approached by a face he never thought he'd bear witness to again. The enigmatic stranger perambulated over to the quiet corner booth currently being occupied by a lachrymose Gosling, sipping contemptuously at his icy beverage, as to reflect his current outlook on life. "Hey there old pal, you're looking glummer than a hamster in a wellington boot!" to which Gosling, begrudgingly drew his brooding attention away from his Um-Bongo, taking every measure to make it absolutely clear that this was indeed, an emotionally taxing adjustment of limbs. However, when he gazed upon this monolith of pulchritude standing before him, Gosling shed his sour emotions and his face lit up with glee. Like a child falling down a wishing well, he was overwhelmed with exhilaration and, perhaps even a hint of fear, for this lustful titan of sweet vocal harmonies was none other than his oldest compatriot, mysteriously vanished seven summers past, and thought to be dead in seven separate dimensions. Yes indeed, it was Tolentino Carillion Knight, known to the authorities simply as Mister Knight. He grasped Gosling's hand with a grip like the crushing jaws of a manticore, leaving Gosling feeling as if he'd been hung out to dry by a housewife with big meaty gorilla hands. "What seems to be stirring your pasta, Mr Rasta?!" Mister Knight harnessed the power of his a-cappella quartet and spoke in the voice of four heavenly souls that Gosling could have sworn temporarily materialized behind him in a flash of light like a gun's muzzle flare. Somewhat taken aback by this esoteric display of avuncular concern, for of course Mister Knight is older than the stars, Gosling attempted to articulate a response, but could only manage "wop." Mister Knight laughed in a, parental sort of way, then gracefully swept his moustachioed frame into the seat opposite Ryan.

Beef-Oven, who was currently nestled under the table observed this exchange with a curious expression plastered across his keys, and released a nervous tune which roughly translated to "Why, who is this charming fellow, sire? He's really hammering my soundboard with that mellifluous sound of his." Gosling COMPOSED himself (comedy – get it because he's a music man) and offered no reply to his piano-pal, instead diverting his attention to Mister Knight.

Gosling then delivered a monologue so powerfully moving and ineffably heart-wrenching that it cannot be recounted by writers of our humble standing. However, the general gist is thus: Gosling is tremendously sorrowful over the recent monopolisation and unmitigated bias of music distribution which has recently been implemented by the fish lord Frootmig. This city, once a bountiful gallimaufry of contrasting eclectic music genres has now been solely defined by its rigid bailiwick of Shrimp-jazz. Gosling later expostulated that he feels ostracized by his absence of gills in a society wherein one's gills can determine one's grandiosity. Gosling ended his emotional ejaculation by expressing his desire for an expedition into musical worlds so far unexplored and achieve musical enlightenment.

Mister Knight, shed a solitary, iridescent tear that trickled down his craggy features and fell to the floor where a flower grew, and was promptly engulfed by the veracious hound of the neighbouring brothel. In this moment, Mister Knight knew that he and Gosling were one and the same, their souls intertwined in an intimate dance of destiny, for the ageless mountain sage that is he, also felt a shrimp jazz related injustice, permeated by the tingling sensation on his serpentine tongue. He too knew that there was more to the world than the choruses of the crustaceans; the solos of the sea-dwellers; and the polyphonic paradiddles of the poisonous prawn people. Mister Knight didn't feel the need to say anything, for everything had already been said, so he thrust his ring encrusted hand towards Gosling and engaged in a handshake, a handshake that would be a precursor to how their lives would change forever.

And so, our lion-hearted protagonist has been re-acquainted with the one man who can change their reality. Who knows what the future has in store for them because we don't. With this, Mister Knight silently stood up and left. Gosling knew what to do, for he knew that Mister Knight does not follow the codes of the normal man. Snapping his fingers to alert Beef Oven they were leaving, he placed the remainder of his shrimp currency on the table as a sign of contempt to the shrimp overlords, but also to pay for his Um-Bongo because that was the currency.

Gosling stumbled out of _Cathy's Cleft House_ into the gloomy night and found Mister Knight standing under the rose-pink glow of a magical street lamp, mournfully humming the tune to 'City of Lars (Ulrich)'. He was disdainfully glaring at the giant ivory letters up on the distant hillside, once proclaiming the proud name of this city, now spelling out the message 'FISH MEN RULE'. "Those snake strangling scallywags! They're drunk with power as well as the fetid alcoholic ichor and mucilage they heartlessly consume". Gosling, not quite sure how to respond to this profound double entendre, simply nodded with a "wop".

Mister Knight, replied in a grave tone of voice "We must find another genre, superior to that of the shrimp-jazz, only then can we be liberated from the despotic rule of the oceanic oligarchy!"

"Yes!" retorted the Gosling, "Then I can truly become the music man I have always known myself to be!" Beef Oven, feeling left out quickly composed a jubilant tinkle-tankle on his 54-key body, which probably translated to something along the lines of "I concur wholeheartedly my amigos! Let's kill those fuck fish!" Then proceeded to play the hit song 'Another Night of Moon' as a sign of new beginnings.

And so, our heroes are sufficiently motivated to embark on a life changing musical orientated adventure of unprecedented unbelievability.


End file.
